


The Devil's Wine

by Anonymous



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Don't mind me I'm just doing something really ill advised again, F/F, Femmeslash February, Masturbation, Only not really at least not yet shh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 21:25:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's possible, just maybe, that you haven't got the slightest inkling of what the ever loving hell you are doing. This does nothing to dissuade you from your course of action. Or it wouldn't, if you knew exactly what the course was either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dancing Lights

**Author's Note:**

> I have yet to decide if these shorts are actually going to be interconnected or not. What I do know is that there will never be enough Jane/Roxy in the entire world ever. I have never actually shipped something with this intensity, and I come from the Sherlock fandom.

She has short fingers, nimble, strong, they certainly know their way around a spoon, and they can knead dough into submission in minutes. Soft, too, and that's why it's so unexpected, the rough shock of one dragging, long and slow, over your clit, so that your whole body stutters right along with your gasp.

You have the vaguest impression that she's startled by your ragged reaction. Guilty.

And then the dancing lights reflecting in nauseating patterns from water to white washed walls to your bedroom pries you out of sleep, cross eyed and cotton mouthed, and you don't know whether to be more upset that you misjudged the severity of this hangover, or that the stupid sunlight couldn't at least have the decency to let you dream.

You consider, for a moment, damning the lights and doing it properly, awake and aware and steady fingered, but you don't really want to, not actually. So you draw the covers up over your face even though it's too hot and you can't quite breathe beneath them, and you let your palm be a warm, soothing weight on a cunt that's already starting to calm down, because you know your body, as you rightly should. It's the only company you've had for sixteen years! You know the difference between a day when you will happily sacrifice all feeling below the elbows to win eight sparkling orgasms, where the third is always the strongest, and a day like today, where the exertion isn't worth the return on investment.

You roll out of the tangled heap of comforters and sheets that is your lonely, but at least warm, bed and eye the nearest pile of clothing. It takes some consideration to decide whether you'll bother today. There's no one to dress for but yourself. The Carapacians certainly could not give two fucks to rub together, and on a fundamental level, neither do you. But a girl has to have standards.

Even if those standards are a piling sweater that keeps threatening to unravel and has a neck so stretched that it doesn't quite stay on your shoulders, and a wrinkled skirt that you'd wash except that it would be a waste of fresh water and you're in no mood to go to the effort of beating off the caked on sea-salt if you wash it in the canals of your floating city.

The pounding in your head as you wander in a fog from one end of your room to the other almost pushes you to mix a new drink, something to take the edge off. Can't be hungover if you're still drunk! Except that you know for a fact you can, and it just makes everything worse down the line.

So instead you tip toe into the outside world, afraid only for the lightning white cymbal crash in your skull that will knock you over if you make too much noise, and you avoid thinking with all your not inconsiderable might about black hair carefully styled into an updo that would make 50s matrons everywhere weep with envy, because you might not be civilized and you might not be socialized, but you at least have the decency to feel guilty about that.

Even if being guilty over a dream is just about the silliest thing you've ever done. And you're Roxy LaLonde. You know silly things like the back of your carefully manicured hand.


	2. Relative Safety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane's voice is higher than you were expecting. Different. Not like the voices in the movies at all.

The first time you hear your best friend's voice, it's nothing like you expected. You aren't sure what you were expecting, actually, because even though there are countless films from that era which can give you insight on those dialects, it never actually occurred to you that those were _actors_. That the way their ohs dragged out with an exhalation and their terminating g's were subtly but always audible might have been the result of their own region or their craft or any of a dozen factors. Jane doesn't do that, talking with a speed that brings her occasional detail centric neurosis to the forefront in a way that nitpicky blue text cannot, and sometimes her words run together in strings that make all those -ing's and -eses indecipherable form eachother.

You will wonder after the call ends if, maybe, she only didn't correct your enunciation because she could hear the slushy way your s's definitely did not lisp because lisps are not appropriate for a woman of your standing, and guessed at your blood alcohol content, or because grammar and pronunciation are separate things for her. Because she grew up in a place where there were almost infinite people to give her constant feedback on what was and wasn't an acceptable breach of verbal protocol.

Her voice is also higher than you thought it would be. Your own isn't exactly a contender for the world knee-quakingly deep championships, how utterly stupid would that be? But the way Jane speaks seems so at odds with her knowledgeable front. But then, it suits her not infrequent dips into panic. And, of course, she's only a fifteen year old girl. Your voice probably shouldn't be as breathless and low keyed as it is, but you've already been drinking like a fish for two years by now, and who knows what kinds of effect it has had on your growth, vocal chords included?

At one point, her father- and he sounds fucking _hot_ , smoker's rasp and deep as any classical actor could desire, definitely a world championship contender- knocks on the door while she is halfway through her tangent on the damage her honorary placronym had suffered when it had fallen behind her desk, (until the jeweler could repair it she was apparently named J0ne Crockeb), and she had startled at the unexpected intrusion. 

Her high, fluttery voice had gotten higher, a sort of wordless shriek that died off before it had even earned the vowels in it's name, and you jump with her because the noise is just as unexpected on your end, but your shock is completely, perfectly silent, lips clamped tight and breath held in preemptively straining lungs, because for you shock and sound together could be a death sentence. But later tonight, presumably after the more jealous, philosophical waxing on the quandaries that voice chat has raised, you will remember it and giggle because it's just such a precious little sound. A little Jane noise that you want to treasure because she probably didn't even realize she'd made it, or if she did it will have certainly been forgotten by then.

And when the cloud of gin crushes everything else blissfully out of your head, especially the aching, desperate loneliness that has doubled, tripled, multiplied unknowably thanks to being able to _hear_ but not touch, you let yourself replay it in your head. Over and over. On infinite repeat until you honestly can't remember if it sounded like that or if your own mind has run it through a grinder, because it can't have been _that_ sweet, that's practically a kitten noise!

That's not the first time you resolve to keep Jane safe and tucked away like your lab full of mutant cats, hell you won't even remember it come morning, but maybe it's the straw that breaks the ~~humpbea~~ camel's back, because when you struggle into consciousness you don't even pause to feel gross and wrung out before mixing a fresh martini and plunging into making an executable that could double as an execution.

Safe is relative.


End file.
